


Like Hemmingway

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, I'm obsessed with singing sherlock okay?, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Sherlock is kind of a bad influence, Violence, War, song!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up from a terribly vivid nightmare about the war and Sherlock tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Hemmingway

**Author's Note:**

> I do NOT own BBC's Sherlock or any of it's character.
> 
> This fic is inspired by the song "Good Friends With Bad Habits" by Owen. I'd give it a listen or at least look up the lyrics if I were you.
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos if you feel inclined to.

He's standing at the operating table. He's already opened up the patient. Simple GSW to the torso appears to have punctured the pancreas. It is beyond repair. This solider will have diabetes for the rest of his life. Not to mention the damage done to surrounding organs. The bleeds he keeps finding keep taking priority over the removal of the pancreas. He can hear the gunshots ringing out inside the base camp. Captain John Watson M.D. wishes that none of this was happening. He wishes himself back home in an armrest between his mum and dad's yelling voices and a hot cuppa. This wasn't supposed to happen. There wasn't supposed to be an ambush today. Today they were supposed to have the upper-hand. An insistent voice in the back of his mind tells him that nothing is supposed to be any which way. There is no plan. There is only chaos and war. Then the cold barrel presses to the back of his skull.

"Stop operating," one of the men to his side demands. "You let this man die if you know what's good for you."

The captain swallows the lump in his throat, trying to keep his composure. "I really need to finish-" he tries to choke out.

"Get on your knees!" the man with the gun pressed to him barks. John complies, putting the scalpel down gently and lowering himself onto the ground. He places his hands behind his head, brushing the end of the gun with his fingertips. If it was just the one gunman he would have had a mind to wrestle the firing arm away from him. He winces as the gun presses harder into his shoulder now. 

"P-please. Let me live. Please God let me live," he whispers. 

"Your god is nothing. Your god cannot help you!" one of the voices tells him. He cowers again looking down at the floor. 

One of the men moves toward the operating table and John can here him picking up one of the tools from the cart beside it. The attacker takes the scalpel and drags it switftly down the patients left let, digging deep so as to slice open the femoral artery. The monitor signals out loudly in distress as the patients vitals begin to sink. Blood is pouring off the table, spilling onto the floor. It pools under John, soaking into his uniform. Everything smells more like iron and copper than it had before. John's understanding of the blood source becomes muddled in his sense of comradery with his fellow soldiers. The patient blood feels like his blood. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding away at the rhythm of the dying soldier above him. His breathing is heavy and labored, coming in sporadic instances. God he's having a bloody panic attack in front of the enemy.

"Please!" he screams out. "Please God just stop this!" Is he screaming at the attackers or God himself? Never more than now has he doubted every conviction he has been raised to believe. 

"Incapacitate him. Kill all of the doctors in the camp. Every nurse. Every surgical assistant. Kill everyone," the man in front of him commands. There is no hesitation when the man behind him pulls the trigger. The bullet tears through his shoulder, exiting quickly to the other side, burying itself into the ground. He tries to scream but nothing comes out, nothing but blood, mingling itself with all that is till pooling from above. He bites his lower lip trying to stay conscious, breathing through his nose. He attempts to push up on his left knee. He wants so badly to stand and run away. He needs to get out of there. But the gunman behind him knocks him to the ground with the butt of his automatic weapon. 

They leave him there, fully convinced he's innocuous now. John is laying on the ground, his hair plastered to his forehead, soaked in his blood, his patient's blood? Who knows? Who cares? He can taste the blood in his mouth too as he is panting now. His cheek is wet with tears as he grips his wounded shoulder attempting to apply pressure. It hurts terribly and blood gushes out over his fingers. He screams out in pain. The vitals monitor has been whining that steady stream of sound for some time now. It's getting on his nerves, having to lay there uselessly listening to the reminder that he has failed and the soldier is dead. He tries fleetingly to lift his torso from the ground to no avail. He reaches up. He needs gauze. He needs anything to try and maintain the profuse bleeding from his shoulder. He's sure there is some bone shattered inside of him, tearing at the muscles. This won't end well if there are no doctors left in the vicinity. He tries screaming out again for help, but nothing comes out. His throat is aching. 

Something moves above him. Someone is in the room now, grunting. But no one has entered? The cart gets knocked over sending dangerously sharp scalpels, clamps, and resection tools all over the floor next to him. A heavy, bare foot splashes into the pool of blood. A large gash is visible along the leg approaching him. This soldier who is supposed to be dead, who is still all open and spilling organs is climbing off the operating table, advancing toward John on its knees, gasping and reaching, gripping his shoulders. Those dead eyes bore into him, intense but filled with nothingness. John tries to back away but his legs won't move. 

"John." the corpse man whispers hoarsely. "John." The dead soldier begins to lunge himself at John, dripping blood from his open torso all over John's uniform. He tries to scream again but it comes out as a whimper. He puts his hands up and grabs at the dead man's throat. He holds firm, overcome by fear, driven by adrenaline. 

"Stop just stop this," the captain whispers pushing his fingers bruisingly hard against the other soldier's neck.

"John! John! Please wake up!" the corpse whispers hoarsely. His eyes turn begging and more familiar. "John!" Is that Sherlock? No it can't be. This corpse is so faceless, but all the same the voice is piercing through the haze. The scene is burning away at the edges. The flames lap at the center, willing the doctor awake. 

His pupils dilate as they take in the darkness of the room The first thing he consciously observes is the inky curls of his flat-mate shaking beneath him. He's gripping with reality. His eyes find there way down to Sherlock's face, struggling with a range of emotion, trying with mouth agape to catch a breath. John realises the pressure of his friend's neck beneath his hands and lets up. Sherlock takes in a deep breath of air before collapsing, letting his head rest on John's chest. 

John begins sobbing immediately twisting his fingers into the back of Sherlock's shirt. "Sorry. So sorry," he breathes out in heavy pants, still riding out his panic attack.

"Shh. Shh. It's okay. John it's okay. It's okay. I've had worse." Sherlock tries to laugh to ease the tension but there is no lightening the situation before them. Sherlock lifts his head from John's chest and begins to cradle John's head against his own. He runs his fingers through his hair and kisses the top of his head. He tries to think about how Mycroft would have handled this, the way he handled his own panic attacks when he was a child. "Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you. And everything you do. And they were all yellow." Sherlock begins to sing remembering how that sort of thing, however annoying always managed to get him breathing at a normal rate again. "I came along. I wrote a song for you. And all the things you do. And it was called yellow," he continued rocking them back and forth. John seemed to settle into a steady rhythm again, but he was still crying. Still apologising softly. "Shh." He tilted Johns head up to look at him. "Do you want me to make it better?" he asked.

"How do you expect to do that?" John asked skeptically. 

"Morphine," Sherlock whispered the single word against John's lips kissing him chastely. 

"No Sherlock. You're not supposed to be on that stuff anymore. I'm not going to."

"Shh. Shh. It's just this once and it'll calm you down okay?" Sherlock insisted caressing John's face gently wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. Before John could oppose he got up and left the room, going down the stairs and into his own bedroom to pull the drug from is stash. 

When Sherlock came back up the stairs, John was sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. He was murmuring something under his breath about how much he hated himself. Sherlock crawled onto the bed and took John's left arm into his hands, extending it forward. John was still protesting but he didn't take his hand back. He felt too weak to fight back. To guilty to push Sherlock away after he'd already damaged him so much. He could spot the thick purple lines already forming around Sherlock's throat. He sobbed as Sherlock tied off the tourniquet. "Shh. It's okay John. I'll make you feel better." Ever so gently he pushed the needle under John's skin and pushed down on the plunger.


End file.
